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Veritas gets a call in the middle of his evening bath. He promptly ignores it; he's had a long and stressful day of lectures and grading and going over intelligentsia guild research, and the bath is his designated safe space. So he waits until the ringer shuts off and returns to his book. A moment later, his phone rings a second time. Veritas sighs in annoyance. It’s on the counter, or he would just shut it off. He's reluctant to get out of the water, so again, he waits. Returns to his book.
A moment later, his phone rings a third time. Veritas curses, shuts his book, and stands up, water sloshing over the edge of the tub as he steps out of it, peeved. Who would be calling him so late anyway? Surely his colleagues would know to wait until morning, regardless of urgency.
He checks his phone. The name on the screen only confuses him further. Aventurine. Aventurine never calls twice. Veritas picks up.
"I would think even you would know better than to call this late, even if it's on business," he says instead of a greeting. There’s a pause on the other end, rather than one of Aventurine's usual retorts, and it makes Veritas deeply uneasy. He reaches for his towel and wraps it around himself, figuring he's unlikely to continue his bath at this point. Something must have happened.
"Uh..." The voice on the other end of the call decidedly does not belong to Aventurine. It's too gruff, with even just that one syllable. "Sorry about this. I realize how late it is, but your friend here, well... He's passed out drunk and every time we try waking him up he just falls asleep again so..."
"He's passed out drunk," Veritas repeats. He pauses, considering. Aventurine drinks and smokes and gambles, but Veritas has never known him to get to the point that he passes out. Though, perhaps Veritas knows little of Aventurine after all. "So why have you called me?"
The person on the other side of the call clears their throat. "We can't just leave him like this, but he won't tell us where he lives. You're his emergency contact."
△
Veritas has a number of questions, few of which can be answered at the moment. He arrives at the bar—dingy and cheap, nothing like the expensive, gaudy places Aventurine usually favors—and finds Aventurine passed out, as he'd been told. He reeks of alcohol and smoke and sweat, and there are a handful of stains on his coat. This is not what surprises Veritas. What surprises him is the fact that this man, possibly the least trusting individual Veritas has ever met, would allow himself to become so exposed and vulnerable in such a dangerous place.
Because Aventurine sleeps with his cheek on his arms folded over the counter, lips parted just slightly, eyes closed, hair a mess, and he is— he’s vulnerable. Anyone could do any number of things to him in a state like this, and he would be powerless to fight back. There’s a man sitting beside him, exhausted and watching over him, and Veritas is deeply unsettled. Had Aventurine, perhaps, been drugged?
The floor is sticky when Veritas approaches. There are bodies left and right, moving together and heating the air, and the music is far too loud. Veritas holds back a grimace as he addresses the man with Aventurine. "You are Gallagher?" he asks. "We spoke on the phone."
"Yeah," Gallagher says. His gaze flicks to Aventurine, who still slumbers, and then back to Veritas. "And you're...?"
"Veritas Ratio," Veritas introduces himself. "Did my contact in his phone not say so?"
Gallagher huffs a laugh and half smiles. "You're in there as 'doctor' with a heart next to it."
Veritas blinks. He glances at Aventurine. The way his hair is a mess, strands hanging in his face. "I see," he says.
"Will you need any help with him?"
"No," Veritas says, still looking. Aventurine's nose twitches. He inhales. Exhales it back out. Continues sleeping. His collar hides most of the brand on his throat, but the top of it sticks out. There's red next to it. A small blotch in the shape of someone else's mouth.
"Right," Gallagher says, hiding a yawn in his hand. He stands up, bar stool creaking. "Good luck with him, then."
The music is still too loud. Veritas still has too many questions. He nods, and Gallagher leaves. Aventurine still sleeps. Veritas takes Gallagher's seat, reluctant to touch anything but forced by necessity, and hovers a finger beneath Aventurine's nose to check his breathing. Next he checks his pulse, carefully brushing aside the too-long hair that curls around Aventurine's neck. It's normal, not fast and weak or slow and lethargic like it might have been were he drugged. Had he really allowed himself to get so drunk as to compromise himself like this? Veritas is uncertain what to do with the thought, or the strange, worry-like feeling in his stomach.
He shakes Aventurine by the shoulder, attempting to wake him. What he gets is a small groan and not much else. Aventurine burrows further into his arms, hair brushing the tops of his cheeks. Veritas considers him, unsure how exactly he's meant to navigate a situation like this. Veritas doesn't go to bars, doesn't drink, doesn't do this. They don't do this. Veritas is not the one that should be here right now. He shouldn't be Aventurine's emergency contact.
"Aventurine," he says, trying again to wake him. His shoulder is warm through his clothes. Fine-boned. Aventurine always seems so much larger than he really is. He always has so much to say, so many thoughts. Sometimes Veritas forgets how small he is. But details like that are hardly important, and he would only be wasting his time to dwell on them.
Aventurine stirs, slightly. He grumbles a bit, turning so his face is entirely hidden. Troublesome. Veritas debates just hauling him upright, but that would be highly improper.
"Wake up," he says firmly, shaking Aventurine again. This time there's a response. Aventurine attempts to bat his hands away, protesting, but a little more persistence and he finally turns his head and cracks his eyes open to look at Veritas.
His glasses are gone. Veritas hadn't noticed this before, but he notices now faced with sharp rings of color. Again, this is inconsequential. Veritas doesn't know why he's left with any kind of impression.
Aventurine squints at him. Somehow, he looks far worse for wear with his eyes open. Disheveled. There’s red in his cheeks from the alcohol. His eyes slip shut again.
"No," Veritas says, resisting the urge to flick his forehead. "Wake up." It's too loud in here. Too hot, too dirty. He'd rather they get out of here sooner rather than later.
Aventurine looks at him again, still half-asleep. "Odd dream," he mumbles. He smiles slightly, clearly still disconnected with reality. "Dr. Veritas Ratio in a bar of all places."
"I'm here for you," Veritas says. "We're leaving."
"Mm." Aventurine closes his eyes again, still smiling to himself. "Dr. Veritas Ratio in a bar for me." His voice is all muffled and rough.
"We're leaving," Veritas repeats.
Only one of Aventurine's eyes cracks open this time. Drunk, lazy. His gaze floats around Veritas' face for a moment before it drops to his exposed chest. A moment longer, lower still. "Shouldn't you buy me a drink first?" he asks, smiling wider. His words are slurred.
Veritas' jaw tightens. A stranger bumps into his back and apologizes. What he wouldn't give to not be here. "You're had more than enough to drink," he says. "Get up."
"No can do, Doctor," Aventurine says. "No can..." He trails off here, perhaps losing his train of thought. His smile smooths out, gaze falling to the sticky bar tile.
“You have work in the morning,” Veritas reminds him.
Suddenly, Aventurine seems a near thing to sober. “So I do,” he says. He sighs and presses himself up with hands on the tabletop, wobbling slightly as he stands. His eyes are rimmed in red, now that Veritas can get a good look. His hair is mussed like someone had been pulling on it. Maybe himself. Maybe the owner of that mouth-shaped mark on his neck.
“Let’s go, then,” Aventurine says. “Or was the good doctor lying when he said he was here to pick me up?”
Wordless, Ratio turns to leave. He doesn’t check to see if Aventurine follows. It isn’t until he reaches the door that he holds it open and turns. Aventurine steps out. Into the dark, into the cold. He doesn’t shiver, and he only seems slightly unsteady. Blackout drunk, and yet.
“A gentleman,” he comments, but it comes out far too tiredly to belong to him. Veritas watches him silently. Surveys the strange, subtle suffering he carries. It’s horribly obvious, how wrong this is. Veritas has never known Aventurine to look like this. It’s unsettling. Uneven ground, or cracked ice underfoot. Veritas is, for once, at a loss.
“Would you answer if I asked what put you in this state?” Veritas wonders. He looks at Aventurine, who uses the wall to support himself as he brushes something off his shoes. Even still, he wobbles a bit. Looks up in garish streetlamp light. Blond hair a mess, eyes like empty.
“Drink,” Aventurine says. The twist of his mouth into a smile is discomfiting to look at. “You’ll have to forgive my clumsiness; alcohol tends to do that to a guy.”
A master at talking in circles. Veritas waits for him to straighten up before he turns and paces in the direction of his car. “You speak to me as if I’m a fool,” Veritas says to dark, frigid air. He listens to Aventurine jog a bit to catch up. “Would I be here if your problem was mere drunken clumsiness?”
Quiet. “I don’t know why you’re here at all.”
“Don’t you?” Veritas does not look at him. A handful of thoughts ring in his head. Among them, repeating, I am your emergency contact.
“Are you asking me to take a guess, Doctor?” His hand wraps around Veritas’ wrist, cold fingered. “Are you obsessed with me, is that it? Couldn’t wait until our next project to—”
Veritas wrenches his arm free. “I received a call that you were passed out drunk and in need of a ride home,” he says. “I received a call, because it appears that I am the emergency contact in your phone.”
Aventurine’s expression closes off. He laughs dully and says, “Caught me,” as Veritas unlocks the car.
△
It chips away at him for days. Something about that encounter or the knowledge that came with it. The way they didn’t speak at all in the car. Veritas just drove and Aventurine just stared out the window with his cheek propped on his hand. When they stopped at his place, he left without a word.
Veritas stayed long enough to make sure he got inside, and that… that has him thinking too. He has more questions than answers, hears a little voice in the back of his mind, so the learned doctor is stumped?
He can’t begin to lay claim on an understanding of Aventurine’s psyche. He doesn’t know what would possess him to make Veritas his emergency contact. They are business associates at best, antagonists to each other at worst. Were it a lack of friends, it would make more sense to list a coworker he’s close to, perhaps Lady Bonajade or Topaz. Perhaps it’s due to Veritas’ knowledge in medicine, but he would hardly be the doctor responsible if Aventurine were hospitalized. Perhaps he did it simply by accident.
Caught me, Aventurine says, over and over. His eyes as empty as dried up lakes. Not, then, an accident.
Veritas brings himself to his lecture hall and leads a day of instruction. Between classes, he happens to check his phone. There, unnoticed amidst all the missed calls, a text sent perhaps an hour before Veritas had gone to pick Aventurine up.
Cryptically, it reads, Have you ever been in love, Doc?
After a long moment, something possesses him to text back: Have you?
△
“It’s just like you to answer a question with a question,” Aventurine muses when the call connects. He doesn’t bother with greetings or propriety. He so rarely does.
Veritas puts the phone on speaker and sets it on his desk. “You asked a strange one to start,” he says, papers spread in front of him. A mountain of coursework waiting to be graded. Veritas has allowed himself to fall behind. “Forgive me for asking a follow up.”
“A follow up,” Aventurine echoes. He laughs, softer than he tends to. It’s late; Veritas wonders where he is. At home or somewhere else. Drinking his worries away or drowning sober. “I was drunk when I asked. I figured you were going to ignore it.”
“I didn’t see the text amongst all the missed calls.”
A moment of silence. He can hear Aventurine’s breath on the other end. “So… what? You’re saying you would have answered if you saw it?”
Flawed reasoning. Veritas deducts a handful of points from this paper and skims through the rest, adjusting his glasses on his nose. Outside the window, it’s dark. Even with a lamp and the overhead light, his eyes are beginning to strain. “Do you normally ask questions with the intention of being ignored?”
“I was drunk,” Aventurine reminds him.
“Yes, I am well aware.” Veritas rubs his temple and leaves this paper with a sixty-five out of one hundred. He turns to the next. Just from the introduction, he doesn’t think he’ll give it higher than a forty. “Do you mean to rescind your question, then?”
Something creaks on the other line. A chair or a bedframe groaning under weight. “Well, that depends. Are you going to make me answer yours first?”
Caught me, Veritas hears. That dull laugh. The bend of someone carrying too much, softened by alcohol. Have you ever been in love? He’s struggling to concentrate. A strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Shall I trade mine for another, then?”
“It’s late, Doctor,” Aventurine says. “Don’t you have a warm bath to get to?”
“You called me,” Veritas says. “If you’ve created an uncomfortable situation for yourself, that’s entirely on you.”
A laugh, a little bit incredulous. “Fine, then,” Aventurine says. “Ask away.”
“Why did you want to know?” is the question Veritas chooses. A brief pause. He turns the page and settles on a thirty-five for this particular essay.
“Are you working?” Aventurine asks.
“Yes,” Veritas answers. “Should I hang up if you’re going to keep wasting my time?”
An exhale. “The exam is too difficult, Professor,” he says, playful in that infuriatingly fake way. He’s like glass, but he doesn’t seem to realize it. Veritas rubs the space between his eyebrows and pulls another essay toward him, sighing. “I didn’t realize you were just as bad as I am, when it comes to work.”
“The end of the semester is near,” Veritas explains. “I would revoke that comparison.”
“Hit a nerve, did I?” A smile in his voice. One of the real ones, the rare ones. His face against Veritas’ shoulder. His hands would wander, given the chance. He’d laugh. A caught wrist, a real smile. Caught me.
Veritas’ fist closes around his pen. “I’m hanging up.”
“Wait,” Aventurine blurts. Veritas doesn’t respond, nor does he hang up. He leaves a bit of ink on the paper he hasn’t managed to spare a glance. “I asked because I was curious.”
“Yes,” Veritas says, “that tends to be why most people ask questions. Why were you curious?”
A laugh. “You’re untouchable, Doc. I guess I just wondered if it was possible for someone to get through that stone heart of yours.”
△
The rest of finals for this semester go by too slowly for both Veritas and his students. He can feel the stress in their papers, see it in their tired eyes and disheveled clothing during his lectures. There’s too much to grade; night after night, Veritas stays late. Then finally, the week ends, Veritas submits final grades, and is free to take a long, long bath. He doesn’t even bring a book, eyes too strained, head aching.
Perhaps half an hour into what should be a two hour long affair, Veritas’ phone rings. He ignores it. A second time too, eyes determinedly shut. A third time, he sighs deeply and slops out of the bath.
“What?” he asks the caller by way of greeting.
The din of voices, laughter. “I’m drunk,” Aventurine says.
“And?”
He clears his throat, the audio fuzzing as he adjusts the phone. “And I realized you never answered my question.”
“Call a cab, gambler,” Veritas sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Go home.”
“I don’t think I will,” Aventurine tells him. He sounds… Veritas doesn’t have the words for it, but he’s never sounded like this before. Almost upset, but softer than that. “I’d like an answer.”
His cheek pressed into the dirty grain of the bartop. Two-toned eyes behind pink tinted lenses. The slight warmth of a narrow shoulder. Veritas could hang up. Should, probably. The bath awaits. And yet he cares. Inexplicably, he cares. It’s frustrating.
“Where are you?” he asks tiredly.
“You know I’ve been thinking about it?” Aventurine continues. “You tricked me. You said you would answer my question if I answered yours, and then you…” He cuts off briefly. A hiccup, or something else. “You didn’t.”
“Aventurine.”
Bitterly, “Same place as last time. Where else?”
Veritas sighs again, deeply. Tired, far too tired for this. “No,” he says, “to answer your question.” And then he hangs up.
△
“Welcome back,” Aventurine says, watching him with his cheek propped on his folded arms. His coat drapes over the back of his chair, leaving him in a turquoise button up, rolled to the elbows. He’s terribly thin without all the fur and fabric to cover him. “How did I know you would show up?”
Veritas sets his hand on the edge of the stool next to him, debating pulling it out, but worried sitting might make it look like he intends to stay. “Am I still your emergency contact?”
One slow, pointed blink. Aventurine has become an odd creature. “Yes.”
“Then I suppose you were counting on my willingness to show up at such times, were you not?”
“I guess so,” Aventurine says, in the same way he said caught me. He doesn’t lift his head from his arms. His gaze is frighteningly empty. “Can I buy you a drink, Doctor?”
“No,” Veritas tells him. “You cannot.”
A pause. Aventurine’s ringed fingers tap along the counter. Index finger first, then pinky finger first. His gaze lifts back to Veritas’. “May I, then?”
The group at the table behind them bursts into laughter at some dirty joke or another. It’s too loud here, too dim and bright all at once. The music is far from good. Veritas repeats, a pit open in his stomach, “No.”
Aventurine sighs. “I suppose you’re here to drag me home, then?”
“Yes,” Veritas tells him. “Though I hope there will be little actual dragging involved.”
A tired smile. Aventurine finally sits up, hair a little bit mussed on one side. Before he realizes what he’s doing, Veritas finds himself checking Aventurine’s throat. There’s nothing there but pale skin and his slave brand. No bruises in the shape of another’s mouth, no fingerprints from a too rough night he’ll pretend he enjoyed. The look in his eyes is almost sober, for how honest it is. But perhaps it’s the fact that Aventurine is drunk that allows him to be honest at all.
Aventurine rubs the heel of his hand beneath his eyes like putting a mask back on. “If I say there will be, does that mean you’ll hold my hand?” Back to teasing, back to dishonesty. Ratio doesn’t understand him. Doesn’t understand himself. He should be irritated, but when he searches for that, all there is is this quiet feeling. He sighs and holds a hand out.
“Are you too unsteady to walk?”
“Ever the gentleman,” Aventurine says, pulling his glasses off and hooking them on the collar of his shirt. Dark circles under his eyes. His hair falls into them as he reaches out to set one gloved palm into Veritas’. He lets himself be pulled up and steadied when he wobbles. He hesitates for a moment, then says, “Thank you.”
△
He’s quiet in Veritas’ car, watching out the window like last time. His coat puddles in his lap. He leans his head against the glass. Veritas spares a glance at him before turning back to the road. One fine-boned shoulder. Hair curling around the nape of his neck.
“Most people drink to escape their problems,” Veritas muses. “Why is it that you seem to drink to create them?”
There’s no banter now. Aventurine merely hums. “Sorry if I’m imposing.”
Veritas doesn’t know what to say to that. He puts a name to the odd feeling in his chest. Concern. Because this is not the arrogant, impulsive gambler he knows. He doesn’t know this wrung-out, exhausted boy in the passenger seat. They drive the rest of the way in silence.
△
“Aventurine?”
A soft noise of acknowledgment. Aventurine struggles to get the key into the lock on his front door. Uncoordinated with alcohol or fatigue. This time, unlike the last, Veritas chooses to walk Aventurine up. He’d thought about it too much after. Perhaps if he does this, his thoughts can be laid to rest.
“Are you… unwell?”
Key slides into lock. Aventurine pauses. Narrow shoulders. His back to Veritas. “Are you worried about me?”
“You’re acting strangely.”
“Sorry,” Aventurine tells him. Two apologies in one day. Unlike him. Everything about this is unlike him. Everything since that first time. “It’s a difficult time of year.”
“Difficult?” Veritas echoes. For work perhaps. Like finals season for him. But Aventurine wouldn’t carry himself this way if it were only work. He wouldn’t bend like he carries the weight of a ruined planet on his back.
An exhale, like an attempt at a laugh aborted. Aventurine pushes his door open. “Thank you for this much,” he says, and then tries that fake laugh again, a little stronger this time. “I won’t make you pretend to care anymore.”
But Veritas has already decided he cares. More than he’d like, enough to keep him up, keep Avnturine’s voice playing in his head over and over. Caught me. The way he looked when he said it. Like there wasn’t a spark left in his soul. Yes, Veritas cares entirely too much. If he walks away from this, he’ll drive himself insane thinking about it. “I wouldn’t be here at all if I was pretending,” he admits. “I wouldn't spend such a considerable amount of—”
“I’m not going to bore you with my life story,” Aventurine interrupts him. “You care like someone cares about a stray dog in the streets, and you’ve done your part in taking me home. Thank you, Ratio. I’ll be sure not to bother you while drunk again. All I need is a good night’s rest, and I’ll be fine.”
There’s a defensive edge to him. Teeth bared to guard a broken heart. Wrong, wrong, wrong. What is this? Who are they? “I apologize if I’ve handled your vulnerability poorly,” Veritas says.
Aventurine blinks, then frowns. “What?”
“I’m unused to seeing you act in any way other than you usually do. But I do…” He clears his throat, mildly uncomfortable with the words that come next, “...care. To some degree.” Admittance to himself as much as to Aventurine. Confirmation.
“To some degree,” Aventurine echoes, and then he gives another tired laugh. “Thanks, Doctor.”
He swallows something down, strange and uncertain. “I do not mind it,” he says, “if you call me for these things.”
Quiet. Aventurine studies him, looking from one eye to the other. His are so startling, no matter how many times Veritas has seen them before. Another day, maybe Aventurine would have something to quip, some teasing remark or another. It speaks miles that today he doesn’t. All he does is nod slightly and say, “Good to know.”
△
Weeks later, some kind of company party hosted by the IPC. Veritas attends only out of formality; these types of things are hardly his scene. An hour in, he’s already wishing to encase his head in plaster. He converses with idiots and intellectuals alike, and a headache begins to pound behind his temples.
He’s been getting those far too often lately. He hasn’t had enough time for his baths.
Eventually, he finds himself seated with a plate of refreshments he picks at without appetite. For a handful of moments, he’s allowed a modicum of peace, despite the too loud din of music and voices. Then, someone sits beside him.
“Are the skewers any good?” Aventurine asks. “I’ve had my eye on them, but I’m not sure about that purple stuff.”
Veritas eyes the one on his plate, untouched. Pointless asking his opinion when he hasn’t tried it. “Bell pepper,” he says, and lifts it in three fingers, holding it out to Aventurine, who blinks at him and accepts it.
“I see,” he says, twisting the stick in his fingers. “I didn’t realize those came in purple.”
Veritas watches him take a bite, teeth dragging along the wood of the stick. His cheek puffs out as he chews. He’s in red today, accented in black, belted tight at the waist. Veritas doesn’t know why this stands out, why he cares.
“They come in many colors,” he says. “Though yellow, orange, and… red, would be the most common.”
Aventurine swallows and hooks a finger in his collar, pulling it away from his throat as he speaks. “Well versed even in vegetables. What a wonder you are, Ratio.”
Veritas breaks his gaze for fear of the way it makes him feel. “Did you have business with me, gambler, or did you only come to spirit away the time?”
The quirk of a mouth. Veritas finds himself looking. “Am I not allowed to simply chat?” Aventurine asks. Teeth on wood, he takes another bite.
“Is it ever simple chatting with you?”
“Is that supposed to be an insult?” Aventurine asks. “Or is that your way of calling me delightfully intellectually stimulating?”
A puzzle to be cracked. His facades are up full force today. “Don’t delude yourself.”
“You shared your food and you haven’t attempted to extricate yourself throughout the entirety of this conversation. A little more and I might even think you like me.”
A little more, he says. Twice now, Veritas has cut into his own time to drive him home. For weeks now, Veritas hasn’t been able to be rid of the thought of him. The care for him. The… Aeons, what a mess. Veritas makes to stand. “I believe now is a good time to excuse myself.”
A hand snags his wrist. “It doesn’t count if it’s out of spite,” Aventurine says. His rings are warm where his body has heated them. “Stay.” Reluctantly, Veritas sits. For a moment, Aventurine only studies him. “Can I ask a favor?” he finally asks.
“There it is,” Veritas says. “Nothing is without a motive with you.”
Aventurine bites the last bit of meat off his skewer and speaks with it tucked in his cheek. “The same could be said for anyone.” He waves the hand with the empty stick. “Life is give and take.”
Veritas rolls his eyes. “Ask away, gambler.”
Aventurine props his cheek on his fist and twirls the stick in his other hand. His gaze dips to it, then back to Veritas, narrowed slightly, the color all too intense. The smile he offers is lazy. Dangerous. A man sure that he’s going to get what he wants. A gun to his chest or—
“A ride home,” he says. “That’s all.”
△
He’s sober, perhaps that’s the strange part. Aventurine has had a single flute of champagne two hours ago and not a drop since. Still, Veritas drives him home, suffers his company. Something possesses him to again walk Aventurine to the door, though there’s no reason to worry he’ll take a drunk tumble down the stairs or find himself locked outside. He makes it to his door just fine, finds his keys just fine.
Veritas finds himself terribly lost. What am I doing? he wonders. Why is his stomach sick with something soft and fluttering?
“Thank you, Doctor,” Aventurine says, leaning and looking at him, eyes as intense and startling as ever. Confusing as ever. “You’re quite the gentleman, aren’t you?”
Aventurine does not live on the way. Veritas has wasted a great deal of time on him, and he doesn’t know how to justify that. He should act bothered, at least, but… he isn’t. He can’t be and he doesn’t know why. Somehow this—being Aventurine’s ride home, his emergency contact—falls comfortably within the lines of what Veritas is willing to do for him. Anyone else and he’d say that. It’s not a bother. You’re not. But this is Aventurine, and whatever kind things Veritas thinks about him he has always been very careful not to say aloud.
And yet he can’t help thinking of a quieter version of this man. One that’s tired enough to close his wary eyes and laden with enough guilt to crush a mountain. Sorry if I’m imposing.
Aeons.
“I can do this much,” Veritas says.
Aventurine twists his keys in his fingers and asks, “Would you do this much for anyone?”
If they needed it, Veritas wants to say, but that isn’t true, and he doesn’t like lying. This is one thing, pretending is one thing, but Veritas Ratio is not a liar.
“Why did you put me as your emergency contact?” he asks instead of answering.
Aventurine huffs a laugh. “How like you,” he says, shaking his head. He slips his key into the lock and pushes his door open. “Come inside, Ratio.”
“Answer my question.”
Another laugh. “It was a gamble.” Aventurine cocks his head. “One that’s paid off quite well, I think.”
△
Aventurine’s home is lived in and comfortable, though it’s also as gaudy as expected. All of his furniture and decor is extravagantly expensive without a doubt, but Veritas chooses not to make any comments. He sits on a plush blue couch in the living room and accepts the steaming cup of tea Aventurine gives him. Listens to the sigh he lets out as he slumps into an armchair with a cup of his own.
He’s given Veritas some things to think about. “Why?” he asks again, because the answer he’d gotten isn’t one he’s satisfied with.
Aventurine sighs. “I didn’t get blackout drunk with the intention of making you get me, if that’s what you’re asking. I’d… Well, I’d prefer if you hadn’t seen me like that at all, let alone twice, but…”
Veritas swallows, throat dry. The tea is too hot to drink. “But…?” he prompts.
Aventurine’s eyes narrow. He slips one of his rings off and rolls it over his knuckles, then sits up. “I realized you don’t hate me quite as much as you pretend to.”
Hate is a terribly strong word. Veritas has never used it in relation to Aventurine, even before all of this. But to say that aloud… His mouth pinches.
“I think it’s my turn to ask a question now, isn’t it?” Aventurine asks, slipping the ring back onto his finger and offering another artificial smile. “Would you do this for anyone? Or just me?”
“It seems like you’ve already come up with your own deductions,” Veritas tells him, frowning.
“Would you be so kind as to confirm them, Doctor?”
Strange, strange, strange. The way they can turn into something completely different after a matter of weeks. The way Aventurine has been taking up far more space in Veritas’ thoughts than he has any right to. The care for him, the begrudging respect, the… What would he label it? The feeling in his chest. Near want. “Confirm or deny them for yourself.”
Aventurine stares. “That’s a dangerous game you’re playing,” he says. “Do you want to know what I think?”
Veritas simply stares back, extending a challenge.
“I think,” Aventurine begins, “that you like me far more than you’d ever admit.”
“Your evidence?”
“This,” Aventurine answers. “Driving me home, admitting you care about me.” He pauses, holding Veritas’ gaze. “The way you’re looking at me right now.”
He’s beautiful in red. Perhaps it’s just because he doesn’t wear it often. Veritas has been looking at him too intensely. He doesn’t have a rebuttal to any of this. “And what do you intend to do with your conclusion?”
“That depends on you.” A pause between them. “Am I a stray dog to you, or am I…”
“I don’t take in strays.”
“Great,” Aventurine laughs. And then he quiets, sobers. “I need to know if you want me in any real way. If not, I’ll take you out of my emergency contacts and we’ll never speak of this again.”
This is the outcome Veritas should want. He doesn’t. For some reason, he doesn’t. He already knows he cares, but why this much? Why does he care enough to waste so much time on Aventurine and find himself unable to be upset by it? Why does he care that this is the first time he’s seen Aventurine in red? Why does the thought of someone else driving Aventurine home make a muscle in his jaw tic?
“Leave my contact as is,” he says.
Aventurine’s eyes flash. “Why, Ratio?”
Veritas’ mouth presses into a firm line. I care about you, he thinks. That uncomfortable, fluttery feeling. A cousin to love. But hypotheses need to be tested, so he can hardly say that now. Not when every old hypothesis of his regarding Aventurine has long since been falsified.
“I’ll be your ride home,” he says, “whenever you need it.”
A sigh. Almost irritation. Aventurine pulls at his collar and shakes his head. “Why?” he asks again. “Why would you want that?”
Honesty tastes sour between them. Veritas is unused to whatever this is. “Because I care about you,” he says. “Because you were correct to assume I would want to be there when you need it. Because I want…” you isn’t right. He doesn’t want Aventurine the way he wants artfully written books or a long bath after a long day. He doesn’t want him as a possession or a source of pleasure. He… “I want to see you happy.”
“That’s sweet,” Aventurine says.
“Would you let me?”
“Let you what?” Aventurine snorts. “Make me happy? You could try, Doctor, but the odds aren’t exactly stacked in your favor at the moment.” It’s a hard time of year. The exhaustion, the drinking, the self destruction. Aventurine is an unhappy person. Veritas has figured this, has acknowledged it in some back corner of his mind, but it’s still jarring to be met with that when he’s so used to all the masks. Aventurine must have more broken pieces than intact ones. And yet, here he is. There he was.
“What do you want, gambler? What are you trying to achieve?”
A laugh. Aventurine takes up his tea and answers, “I hardly know that myself. Still figuring it out.”
“Me as well,” Veritas tells him.
“So neither of us has a straight answer for the other.” Aventurine drinks. Veritas swirls his own cup, lifting it to his face to feel the heat wafting from it.
“Nothing has ever been easy with you.”
“Yes, yes,” Aventurine says, waving a hand. “It’s all my fault. But we’ll figure it out. We always do, don’t we? I’ll just… let you know next time I need a ride.”